Destiny's Kiss

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “But Fortier’s are.” His jaw grew so tight, she could see his scowl in the faint light. “If he’s away from his estate, as he usually is, there is no one to protect his wife, Charmaine.”

  “That house is a hard day’s march from de Talebot’s.”

  “And the fairest prize in France.”

  Lirienne could not silence her gasp. The duc glanced at her and away, and she knew that Monsieur Fortier must be the only one in France who did not know of Philippe and Charmaine’s liaison. The duc mumbled something and hurried along the street.

  As they followed, she wanted to say something, anything, to break the strained silence. She did not know what, however. It was not Philippe’s fault that she had let his kisses tease her into believing he could fall in love with her, as she had with him from the moment he’d rescued her the night the music drew her into the garden.

  She forgot that when they rounded a corner to discover a square filled with lanterns and revelers. Philippe swore. She started to turn to find another way, but he tugged her forward. His face was rigid. With his tricorn pulled low, no one would see his crystal blue eyes which might mark him as a wanted man.

  He pulled off her cape and tossed it over his arm, then ripped the scarf from her dress to leave the bodice dipping deeply.

  “I can’t go about like this,” she said as the duc plunged ahead of them into the crowd. She understood his desire to hurry away from Paris to discover whether his wife and child had escaped. “It’s indecent to walk about—”

  “Just like the other women. Is your modesty more important to you than our lives?”

  She shivered, but reached up to loosen her hair. It fell over her shoulders. When she pulled some of it forward, he drew it aside.

  “Be bold. Your beauty will intoxicate them like their cheap wine. If they look at you, they won’t see me. Together we can slip through.”

  “I’ll be arrested for looking so debauched!”

  He smiled grimly. “Ma petite folle, I’m not asking you to solicit the favors of these pigs.” He enfolded her fingers in his hand. “Let’s go.”

  She wandered through the crowd with him. Where was the duc? She saw Philippe scanning the crowd for him. Tightening her grip on his hand, for she did not know what she would do if they were separated, she stared at the stones. If she looked up, she might reveal her terror of this mob. That could denounce them. The crowd began to sing “La Marseillaise.” She froze, petrified by the memories of seeing the tumbrels rolling along the street.

  “Sing!” Philippe ordered.

  “I don’t know the words.”

  “Pretend!” He began singing with the fervor of the sans-culottes.

  Suddenly hands grabbed her and whirled her into the wild street dance. She wanted to cry out, but continued to sing along with the man who stepped on her toes at every step. Smiling with a jagged-tooth grin, he twirled her about with abandon.

  Straining to look past his ripped shirt, she tried to locate Philippe or the duc. She must not become lost among the revelers. She wanted to believe Philippe would not leave without her, but she was unsure.

  Another arm caught her about the waist and pulled her away. The first man growled, seizing her arms. When she shrieked, sure she was going to be torn in half, the dancers stopped to stare. She was shoved to the ground. The two men grappled. Cheers rang along the street as the crowd turned to enjoy the entertainment.

  Lirienne started to push herself up from the ground, but fell back as a woman shoved her face close. The woman reeked of sweat and sour wine.

  “Leave my man alone!” she snarled.

  “I don’t want him.”

  The woman raised her chin. “Why not? Think you’re too fine for him?”

  “Of course not.” She could not follow the woman’s drunken thoughts. “We’re all equal now, aren’t we, citizen?”

  The woman spat on the ground. “Stay away from him.” She raised her hand.

  Lirienne knocked her away, but the woman grabbed her left arm. Her wedding ring seemed to come alive as its gold sparkled in the lights from the torches. The woman’s eyes widened before she screeched to the others.

  Pulling her hand away, Lirienne surged to her feet. She had to escape. No one would believe she had been born as lowly as the sans-culottes when she wore this ring. Why hadn’t Philippe realized this? Why hadn’t she? Her yearning to believe their marriage might be more than a farce had betrayed her.

  She ran. Hearing more shouts behind her, she slipped through an arch. She moaned with horror when she realized it led only to a courtyard. She whirled and almost bumped into an ebony silhouette. Before she could scream, a cold hand clamped over her mouth.

  “Ma petite folle, what have you done now?”

  Philippe! She clenched his sleeves as he lifted his hand from her mouth. “A woman saw my ring and—”

  With a curse, he took her hand and led her back out onto the street. It was empty. Shrill laughter and shouts came from the square.

  They walked in the other direction, down an alley and toward the river. When heavy footfalls sounded behind them, she risked a glance back, hoping to see the duc. She saw nothing as they entered a narrow street that was unlit.

  He shoved her against a wall and pressed his hand over her mouth again. Terror unlike any she had ever known cut through her as she saw a knife in his hand.

  “Silence!” he hissed.

  She saw some sans-culottes jostling each other beyond the end of the street. Her rapid breathing was thunder-loud, but she doubted if they could hear her as they laughed about slaying the rich.

  Their voices drifted into the distance. Slowly Philippe lifted his hand off her lips. A nod was the only sign he gave her before grasping her hand and hurrying her out into the street. Without a word, they rushed along the stone walk edging the river. From the shadows, a darker form loomed. The rattle of a horse’s harness told her that the silhouette was a carriage.

  He stopped and looked both ways. “Where is he?”

  “The duc?”

  “Watch what you say!”

  A form came out of the shadows, and she cringed. She bit her lip as Philippe stepped forward and clasped the man’s arm. “I knew we could trust you to get a carriage here, Mercier. Is Blois here yet?”

  “No, he—”

  Philippe threw open the door. Handing Lirienne in, he said, “Get her out of here if there’s any sign of trouble.”

  “Philippe!” she cried. “Where are you going?”

  “To get my friend.”

  A man reeled toward them with a shout. “Go! They are coming this way!” He collapsed to his knees. “Go before they get you, too.”

  “Too?” She stared at Philippe’s horror.

  He gripped the man’s shoulders. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. He saw them chasing you and Madame de Villeneuve, and tried to divert their attention.” He hung his head. “I almost got him away, but they caught us. They—” He fell forward onto the stones and did not move as blood streamed from beneath him.

  Shouts coursed along the street. Torches flickered in the distance.

  Philippe shoved her back as he jumped into the carriage. It burst into motion, careening along the street. She tried to hold onto the seat, but fell to the floor. Something struck the carriage. It rocked violently.

  His arms went around her as she clung to his legs. Glass shattered. When a gun fired, she pressed her face to his knees. The horses screamed, but the carriage did not slow, bouncing over the uneven streets.

  He drew her up to sit beside him, and she looked out the rear window. The center of Paris was behind them, and they were heading into the darkness. She flung her arms around him, wondering what they would do now.

  The house was an ebony block in the moonlight that sifted through the gathering clouds. When a door was thrown open, the thin light of a single lantern was the sole welcome.

  Lirienne’s knees wobbled as Philippe handed her out of the carriage. She gasped whe
n she saw Mercier holding a bloody cloth to his arm. One of the shots or a stone must have struck him.

  “I’ll tend to the coach, mon seigneur,” he said in a whisper. “We shall be ready to leave on your orders.”

  “We shan’t leave before tomorrow night.” Philippe’s voice was as low and as lifeless as the stones under her feet. “Traveling by daylight would be too dangerous now.”

  “Where do we go?”

  “I shall let you know tomorrow.” He herded Lirienne ahead of him to the open door. “Madame Freneau?”

  The woman in the doorway nodded. “Were you followed?”

  “Not once we left Paris.”

  “Then enter.” She stepped aside.

  Lirienne fought back tears as she saw the simple room which could have been her family’s home. The ceiling was low, so low Philippe had to hunch over, but the smoke-stained hearth and the few pieces of furniture brought back wondrous memories of a time when her life had been so uncomplicated.

  A man came down the narrow stairs. He took a pipe out of his mouth and frowned. “I thought there would be more of you.”

  “Hasn’t the duchesse arrived?” Philippe asked, frowning.

  The man nodded. “She left with the sunset, to flee farther south. She told me to expect at least three.”

  Lirienne stared at Philippe. He had not told her where they would go, but it seemed that he had planned this well with the duc. Not well enough, for Mallory Blois was dead at the hands of the mob. She could not believe that. This all was insane.

  “The mob caught us.” Philippe’s words were as detached as his expression. “Monsieur Freneau, I must get a message to—”

  “He has been alerted.” Monsieur Freneau took another puff on his pipe. “He will be here at dawn with the papers you will need. For tonight, come this way.”

  Following him up the stairs, Lirienne whispered her thanks when he opened the door to a cramped bedchamber. She touched the bed which was covered with patched blankets. Would she ever be able to sleep soundly again? The mob’s invisible hounds might be chasing them still.

  Philippe shut the door as she drew off her cloak and tossed it over the footboard. Tugging at the shoulders of her ruined dress, she sat on the bed. It squeaked, and he flinched.

  “Philippe, if your contact is arriving at dawn, you should—”

  “I should never have let Blois go off into that crowd by himself.” He struck the doorframe, his face contorted with fury and pain and grief. “He wouldn’t be dead if I had stayed by his side.”

  She grasped his hands. “How can you know that? They could have killed you, too.”

  “Better that than to know he sacrificed himself for me.” His mouth worked, and his shoulders sagged. “He had waited so many years for an heir. Now he had one, and he should have enjoyed his son and his young wife for many more years. Instead he is dead.”

  When she put her arms around him, he pressed his face to her shoulder. Tears ran down her cheeks, because she knew no words to ease his agony. He mourned his friend, his brother, all that had been ripped apart by the Revolution.

  Framing his face with her hands, she lifted it and brushed his lips with hers. He clutched her shoulders as his desperation burned in his kiss.

  “Ma petite folle, ma petite folle,” he murmured as he sprinkled fiery kisses across her face. Scooping her up in his arms, he carried her to the bed. “Ma petite …” He placed her on the covers, leaning over her, his lips on hers.

  Her arms drew him down over her. This was madness, she knew. As his mouth coursed along her neck, she did not care. She wanted this moment of sweet pleasure, for they might not live past the morrow. She had entwined her destiny with his from the moment he first kissed her. Now she wanted to entwine him about her.

  All thoughts evaporated as his tongue caressed her ear. A soft groan slipped through her lips as his finger lowered the shoulder of her gown. When her breasts spilled out, he raised his head, so she could see his glowing eyes as his fingers curved along them. She closed her own eyes, thrilled at the sensations rippling within her, bringing forth a heat she had never known.

  She arched toward him when his mouth followed his fingers to the very tip of her breast. Her fingers were undoing his coat and the shirt underneath as she swayed toward him, wanting to touch every inch of him. He murmured against her skin as his fingers undid the hooks on her gown. Slowly, so slowly she wanted to rip her dress from his hands and push it aside, he let her gown fall back to reveal her chemise and petticoats.

  Bringing her up to her knees, he shoved her gown to the floor. She gazed up into eyes which promised this was only the prelude to the rapture awaiting them. His heartbeat leaped like runaway horses when she stroked his broad chest. Her hands glided over his shoulders and down his back when he pushed her back into the pillows, leaving his coat and shirt atop her gown.

  He pressed her into the mattress so she could discover every hard line of his body. His fingers glided up her legs, lowering her stockings. She writhed as they reached higher to her inner thigh. When she moaned his name, he silenced her with his mouth over hers.

  Her chemise fell away before his eager fingers. As he drew her petticoats aside, she quivered. She gasped when his bare skin touched hers.

  He laughed when she reached for the buttons on his breeches. “So eager, ma petite?”

  Instead of answering, she drew his mouth back to hers. Its flame seared her as it moved along her lips. Her fingers explored the roughness of his unshaven face, across the breadth of his chest, then boldly went to the most masculine aspects of his body as she rid him of his breeches. His ragged breath swept across her breasts before he raised himself over her.

  She gasped when he became part of her. He pressed his mouth over hers until her breath strained against his. Then, as slowly as he had lowered her dress, he began to move. Each stroke sent shuddering euphoria through her, sweeping her into a whirlwind of delight.

  She clenched his shoulders, matching his motions, wanting more, fearing her mind would be ripped from her by this all-consuming passion. The tempest thrust her into an explosion of ecstasy.

  Lirienne folded the last of the clothing into the box and sighed. Philippe had planned this escape well. Although she wondered when he had had these garments delivered to this small cottage, she had not had time to ask.

  He had been gone when she awoke alone in the bed on which he had held her through the night and kept her awake with his touch. A quiver of renewed longing coursed through her, stronger than it had been when he first drew her into his arms.

  The door opened, and she turned as Philippe entered. Even in the tattered breeches and baggy shirt of a farm laborer, he possessed a lordly mien. He did not speak as he appraised her, but a gentle smile tilted his lips when he lifted her single braid and brushed his fingers along her nape.

  “If you wish to remain here—” he began.

  “I’m your wife. I go where you go.”

  “Even to America?”

  She gripped the footboard and whispered, “America?”

  “I have learned someone wants me dead badly enough to pay well for my severed head.” He did not pause as she choked back a gasp. “The first ship I could book passage on is leaving for Philadelphia.”

  “In America?”

  “There is a large colony of émigrés there. They will welcome us until it is safe to return to France.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “If you wish, ma petite, I will have us divorced before the ship sails. Then you can remain here.”

  She did not falter. “I do not want to leave you.” She did not add the rest of the words she longed to speak. Far away in America, far away from Madame Fortier, she might be able to win his heart as he had won hers.

  “I hope you don’t come to regret this decision,” he said as he closed the wooden box and lifted it.

  “I hope so, too.”

  Seven

  A storm hung on the edge of the horizon, piling up gray clouds that were luring
the sun toward them. By the wharves, the ships rocked to the waves that were rising in anticipation. The men lading the ships worked with a frantic air.

  They could be no more frantic than Lirienne was to get aboard the ship that would be taking them to Philadelphia. The journey to the coast had left her nerves frayed. More than once, while they raced across the dark countryside, the carriage had turned off the road and into the trees to avoid what might have been pursuit. They could not trust anyone, so they slept during the day in the carriage while it was hidden behind an abandoned barn or in the woods.

  Philippe had not said a single word to her since they’d arrived in Le Havre, and she guessed he was as eager as she was to put France behind them. Or was it something else? She had seen him glance at the municipal offices they passed. Did he still think of divorcing her and leaving her here? If he had, he had not slowed. She was still his wife, and she was going to travel with him on his journey to find a haven where he’d be safe until he could return to claim his birthright.

  For the past hour, they had been trudging through the day’s waning heat to reach the wharves. Philippe had had the coachman leave them near the edge of the city. He had urged Mercier to return without delay to the duchesse and help her guard the château and the duc’s heir. The coachman had been whipping up the horses even as Philippe picked up the wooden box and handed her their small bag.

  Now they crossed the uneven boards of the wharf. It alone separated them from the Atlantic that touched distant America on the far shore. She glanced at the prows of each ship, but none of them had L’Étoile painted on her.

  She was concentrating so much on trying to find the ship that would allow them to escape from France that she almost stepped in front of a carriage. Philippe yanked on her arm, pulling her back out of the way. Around them, she heard growls of discontent as the carriage slowed. She was about to ask why when she saw all work had stopped. The stevedores stared at the fancy carriage which carried two men. One of the workers raised the hook he was using to guide the crates and shook it.

  Philippe rushed her along the wharf past the carriage. When she saw him look back, she did, too. The carriage was surrounded by men.